Hope
by Surreysmum
Summary: It is the worst day of Will Turner's life; he is on the ghastly Flying Dutchman and his father just flogged him. Hurt/comfort ficlet with a gently implied crossover to Lord of the Rings.


**Title: Hope**

Author: surreysmum  
Rating: G  
Type: h/c; (suggested) crossover with Lord of the Rings  
Pairing: none  
A/N: Spoilers for DMC; and I have probably messed with the chronology of the film by putting in an overnight scene.  
Disclaimer: POTC belongs to Disney; LOTR and its characters were created by J.R.R. Tolkien. This brief story is not intended for profit.

On his first night on the _Flying Dutchman_, Will Turner dreamed.

He had not thought he could sleep at all. Every surface was dank, slimy and revolting. It was cold, so cold, and the stripes on his back, that had burned so badly at first, had changed to slices of frigid, trembling weakness eating into his rapidly declining endurance. Everywhere he looked were waking nightmares, things that had once been men; tentacles, and crusts, and growths and deformations that caused a permanent roil of nausea in the pit of his stomach. Truly, Will Turner feared to sleep that night.

But he was utterly exhausted, and sleep he did. In his sleep, he reached for comfort and, wonder of wonders, he was answered with a dream.

There was a man, tall and regal, in rich robes and a crown. A King. His hair was long and he wore a beard. His eyes were grey, and his features were a little craggy, a little sad. And very kind. Will was not afraid of him, though he was a King.

The King was not looming, or placed high above him, but just the same height as Will, and not far away. Will did not know who he was, though he felt he should recognize him. And when the King held out his arms in fellowship, Will stepped into them without hesitation and let himself be enfolded.

The King was warm, so warm. Will could not help pulling himself even closer, his arms tightening. The King did not speak, but he smiled and tilted Will's head gently down to his shoulder. It was just the right height.

The King's hands began to travel, starting at Will's shoulders and moving soothingly down across the lacerated back. Will realized suddenly that he wore nothing, but it did not worry him. He was safe here.

Will began to forget for a little while as the soothing hands continued. He forgot the dismay of his doomed wedding. He forgot the anger and pain of being betrayed by the man he had thought his friend. He forgot the despair of finding himself at the mercy of a heart-less villain. He even, for a blessed moment, forgot about the bitterness of learning to call a man "father" and "torturer" in the same breath. The hands bringing comfort gently upwards and downwards on either side of his spine pulled his thoughts out of the dark spaces of memory for a brief, healing time.

Then the hands stopped, and Will wept as the memories came back. Gentle lips pressed into his curls, and he was held close. And the bitterness flowed out with the tears, out of his aching muscles and cold skin and futile, furious thoughts, out where the acid of it could no longer hurt him.

At length, Will looked up over the King's shoulder and saw another standing there. And it was as if he looked at himself in the mirror, though the other self was oddly dressed and had a golden halo around his head and shoulders.

"The hands of the King are the hands of a healer," the vision told him.

Will awoke to the nightmare that was his reality. Something was missing, but he had no time to think on it now. He gathered all his courage and righteous anger around him like a shield that would help him survive another day. He shook the slimy damp from his hair defiantly, and with a hiss of annoyance stripped his sodden coat from his back to wring the worst of the water from it.

"William," said his father's voice, awestruck.

"What?"

"Your back." The old man's damp-wrinkled fingers passed quavering over Will's shoulder-blade. And then Will realized that it was the pain that was missing. "What happened to your back?"

"I had a dream," said Will, confused.

"It is a sign," said Bill Turner, superstitious old sea-dog that he was. "It is a sign, Will - you are going to survive this and lead us all out of this hell!" He shook his head as he looked at the perfect, unblemished skin.

He smiled the trembling smile his face had almost forgotten how to make. "My son, after so many years, there is finally hope. Your dream gives us all hope!"

_finis_


End file.
